


hold the mirror up

by auxanges, thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Altar Sex, Church Sex, Churches & Cathedrals, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Fighting Kink, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Self-cest, Sort of Self-cest, Sparring, Swordplay, Weapons Kink, light bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 09:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15861255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: For once, you're not going to complain about the weird glitch that's been redirecting gates.Try and find a working gate, sure, but you're not going tocomplain.Much.





	hold the mirror up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragoneisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoneisha/gifts).



> "I want them to fight before anything happens. Each other, someone/something else, whatever. Big angry Prince fight, they're smug at each other the whole time."

The high walls and soaring points of the Land of Wrath and Angels were a breeding ground for tension: It laced the air, it ran through the ink-black canals, built itself into every stone and settled along seaborn bones. Eridan Ampora, in the wisdom of his ten sweeps, had learned to ignore it. Those trolls who visited, the humans who darted in and out of their game like stray butterflies, had not.

They didn't know what he knew, save for that English kid. They didn't know how much better it had become, after time. They couldn't see it, they didn't  _want_  to see it.

 

Sometimes, he wondered if he resented them for it.

 

* * *

 

Dirk Strider has a problem.

Specifically,  _he_  is the problem, or at least that seems to be the best working theory—he's dropped on a planet unassigned to him no sooner than he gets his bearings on his own, a ruddy pink splash of colour in an otherwise monochrome world. 

He would very much like to know what the fuck is going on.

His counterpart, in some shades of the game, is arrayed in a gold and white outfit that he's been vain enough to spend some time altering. Usually, he dresses in something to blend with the blacks and whites of his land. In this case, he's dressed in something to let this brightly-coloured  _intruder_  know that he's not alone. Fucking idiot.

Dirk lifts his shades with two fingers, squinting at the harsh gold speck making its way over to him alarmingly quickly. "Nice threads."

"You look like an overripe fruit," Eridan retorts, eyes narrowing on the interloper from behind his glasses. Behind him, brilliant violet wings flare out to their fullest extent. "What are you doin' on my planet?"

 _Regretting this session more and more._ "Taking a scenic route." Dirk lowers the glasses again, raising his hand higher to tap his own crown.

"You've seen it." Shark-sharp fangs line the grin-that-is-not-a-grin, and Eridan jerks his head towards an entirely different gate. "Time to go."

 

 Dirk does not return the smile. 

"Wow, you really are a rude little fuck, aren't you?"

 

Eridan's expression takes the last step into being a snarl, and he sweeps closer: on him, with glowing skin and violet eyes, a four inch height difference turn into something more like twenty.

Dirk's sword pops into his hand as an afterthought: only the familiar heat of it alerts him of its presence. "Guess that answers that."

The Crosshairs smack into Eridan's palms with the familiar thud of a weapon well-used. Eridan Ampora has long since realized that fair fights are worthless.

"Seriously?" Seriously. Dirk twirls his weapon over his wrist and takes a step; it veers into a feint before Eridan has time to blink.

 

Hm. Fuck. 

 

Eridan soars up, taking to the skies—if this bastard can flashstep that well, he'd do better to make things long-distance.

Craning his neck to keep the seadweller in sight, Dirk maps out the looming cathedrals and buttresses, following Eridan vis-à-vis their shadows, scanning for easy rooftop access. Ground level has never done him any favours.

A midair turn lets the wind and his wings catch him; he shifts his rifle and takes aim. First shot, second shot, bracket his pursuer. The third is aimed right at the human's deeps-damned heart.

Dirk quicksteps, a brusque, messy movement that's more of a stagger than anything refined. The shot explodes within a foot of him, and pink lightning crackles along his fingers. "Okay. Okay, let's fucking play." Eridan laughs in reply, and it's a sound that usually sends people scrambling for cover. He has a feeling that Dirk will not go running. 

Instead of lifting up again, his wings fold, and he  _drops_.

Dirk blinks. "The fuck—"

 

The rifle swings up again and aims, shots following one after another, more to keep Dirk off balance than anything else. He rolls to the side again, dipping into a crouch and diving forward blade-first. Once he knows Dirk's following, Eridan sights on the falling prince and keeps firing.

Dirk swings, and Eridan  _swears_. The troll is well out of his reach, but another jagged streak of power follows the path of the blade, crackling through the death-still air of the planet—Eridan barely twists away from the lash of power aimed at him in time. Whoever this jackass is, he's damn strong, and he'll admit—he's cautiously impressed, and more so when the human doesn't wait for him to fire back: another lash of power follows the first, and Dirk slowly closes the gap.

Just before Eridan hits the ground, his wings flare out. He knows the air currents of this place better than anyone, certainly better than this human jackass, but Dirk keeps moving. He's never been cautious—not in ways considered typical, anyhow—and the concept is thrown to whatever breeze the both of them are riding.

The Crosshairs fizzle out of existence, and a spear replaces them—the second it touches down in Eridan's hands, he's throwing it, the tight distance between them officially classifying it as "overkill". Dirk swings his sword in a high arc to stop his throw, grimacing at the echo of metal on...whatever the fuck that alien spear is made of.

 

Eridan snarls, and his wings catch him before the proper fall, enough to let him land on his feet, albeit a little harder than a human could take, and Dirk braces, dropping into a crouch, weapon still raised. It's obvious to him that this guy won't back down, but he's a little tired of being carted around space at others' whims.

As for Eridan, he'll admit it: he's riled up. Instead of taking the time for talk, he lunges at the interloper, fangs bared and claws out. "Who sent you? Tell me what you're doin' here!"

"No one  _sent_  me." Another flashstep, and a shove with the flat edge of Dirk's blade. "I got dropped here, and from your welcome party I'm about as stoked as you are."

Some of the rage ebbs, and Eridan pauses, staring at Dirk. They've landed in some little nameless alley, in one of the biggest areas of his land. "You're not a spy?"

"Do I look like a—actually, maybe don't answer that." His sword lowers, and Dirk cocks his head to one side.

"Humans don't venture here much, unless they have some reason," Eridan replies, looking Dirk over in turn. "English has, but he's used to the angels."

"The what."

 

But the conversation rings familiar, tucked away in a corner of his mind. It's one he prefers not to explore; one of many corners and angles he prefers not to explore in the wake of English, Jake English.

 

Eridan shrugs. "They aren't around anymore. I took care a the lot a them, but somethin' a them...well, they, uh. Linger." His fins flick, and he glances back over his shoulder. "If you'd  _like_  to finish the spar, I wouldn't begrudge that."

Dirk blinks at him, then laughs, shaking his head. "You're all fucking weirder than the last. Why the hell not."

"I'm a seadweller, your  _highness_ ," Eridan says, baring his fangs again—this time, it's almost a smirk. "Unless you've met Fef, you can't say shit about weird."

Dirk snorts. "You don't need to annoy me to get me to spar. Come on, seadweller."

 

The spear fizzles out of existence—it stuck in one of the walls, gouging out a nice hole and spiderwebbing the façade with cracks—and in his palms lands a glaive. "I might be annoyin' you for the sake a annoyin' you. Ever consider that?"

"No, because if you'll remember my earlier point, you're all weird."

 

Only, Dirk does consider it. He considers his techniques in programming Brobot to give Jake the challenge he needed. Swanky outfits aside, this troll might have something unfortunately in common with him. It's a thought he tucks away into a little corner of its own.

 

"You're a judgy bastard, aren't you." The spear flips expertly in Eridan's palms, a tricky feat in such a small space, and he advances on Dirk. After sweeps in SGRUB, he knows LOWAA's terrain like the back of his hand, and he's of a mind to take advantage of that. "Even though you still haven't worked out how to get rid a the puffy pants, I mean."

"Maybe I like the puffy pants. A man can enjoy a breeze on his kneecaps every so often, can't he?" Dirk doesn’t step back, but his wrist curls.

"You can actually feel the breeze through those tights?" Eridan glances over him—a slow, lingering look—then smirks, as he sweeps the glaive downwards. "Must be thinner than mine."

It's...unexpected, for Dirk. He dodges a little slower, sword out to parry and hitting thin air. "If your pants are thick as your skull, it's a wonder you can feel anything."

Eridan spins the staff and advances once more, forcing Dirk to change direction or hit the wall. "You say the sweetest fuckin' things, human, it's a wonder no one's snatched you up."

Dirk takes a left with a cursory glance at the damage in the wall from Eridan's earlier throw. "Maybe they have, and you're batting goose egg."

"Oh, you'd be surprised how many people get, ah—" he pauses deliberately, pretending to look for the word, " _curious_ , about how a seadweller...works."

"Gross." 

(Isn't it?)

 

Eridan's eyes harden again, and he flips the blade in his hands, sweeping a cut upwards, aimed at Dirk's side—and Dirk drops, knees to the ground, before swinging his own sword in a facsimile of the movement.

Up Eridan goes in silent reply, his wings catching the sky in a sweep that matches Dirk's so well it almost looks choreographed. Scant light, shining with all the holiness a destroyer of hope is given to bear, outlines his form and casts violet patterns down across Dirk's skin.

Dirk raises a hand to shield his brow, gritting his teeth. "If you want a spar, why bother with those when I'm down here? Seadwellers don't sound like flying aliens."

"I wouldn't bother with them if I wasn't well aware of the fact that you can fly too." Eridan tosses his horns, and drifts a little further down. "If I was in the mood for an unfair fight, I'd take you in the water."

A pause—then Dirk looses a breath, an  _okay, you got me_  of air, and steps into the empty sky. "Think what you want."

It gets a laugh out of Eridan, and he lands on one of the rooftops, his weapon still held to ready. "If it weren't true, I wouldn't think it."

Dirk follows, already more comfortable at the higher vantage point: his posture relaxes, and his grip loosens on his sword. "What else were you thinking?"

"That you're a right pain in the glutes," he fires back immediately. A pause. "An' that we're maybe just a little too alike for any sort a comfort."

"I never really got the 'comfort' vibe from you, man. No offense."

"You're one to talk." Eridan jerks his chin at the entirety of Dirk: even relaxed, there's a certain tension in his body, a weight on his shoulders that he's been stubbornly clinging to since birth.

Dirk finally grins, a self-deprecating little concession. "Yeah. So what is it I can offer?"

"...offer?" Eridan's fins do this odd little flutter, at the comment as much as Dirk's grin.

"Sure. You wanted to spar. Got steam to blow off, seadweller?"

"Maybe so," Eridan says, bracing the spear against the ground, his fins flicking out. "Not like you don't, human."

"Maybe so," he parrots, offering his teeth. They’re not as sharp as the troll’s, but they get the point across.

A shiver runs down his spine, flaring out all sets of his fins and gills. Eridan watches closer now, finally recognizing this human as more of a hunter, a predator, than many of his kind. "What can  _I_  offer, then?"

Dirk lifts his shades again, letting them settle in his hair to look him over properly. "Would you satisfy my curiosity?"

"Curiosity? What—" Eridan's eyes go wide, as he remembers exactly what he'd said to Dirk before their second round. Violet colours his face, spreading from fintip to fluttering fintip. He tries for casual: "Sure."

Dirk logs his sword, taking another step forward: his hands are out, half in surrender, half in something a little more akin to wonder. It wasn't a lie—he's dangerously curious.

Eridan's spear fizzles out of existence before he remembers how hard he was braced on it, and he stumbles forward, almost into Dirk's hold. "Thought you said that was gross," he says, still wary.

"I never said I didn't like gross stuff," Dirk points out, his arms steady.

"You do look like the kinda guy who's into gross stuff," Eridan agrees, and tugs Dirk in by the front of his stupid outfit.

 

Their first kiss is full of sharp fangs and broken hearts, and Dirk's retort is lost to it, as Eridan sinks into the simple affection like he's liable to melt. Dirk's experience in that department began and ended with Jake, and this—this boy does not kiss the same at all. It’s a hard, living thing, jagged around the edges. He presses on.

Human breathing needs are vastly different from a seadweller's, and Eridan pulls back a little too early, inexperience with  _this_  human making him nervous about necessities. His mouth's already stained red-violet. "Get rid a the shades," he says, as his own glasses vanish with a pop of ozone, his sea-deep voice gone rough. "They might break." 

Dirk logs them impatiently; most of his things break, and pieces of plastic are of little importance. "Satisfied, prince?"

"Not nearly." Eridan's claws dig into god-spun material, and he presses in for another brief crush of lips. "I'm not breakable, stop bein' gentle. An' my name's Eridan."

"Eridan." Dirk explores the golden fabric, so familiar and foreign all at once. "I'm Dirk."

"Dirk." Briefly, Eridan wonders if it's a prince thing, repeating someone's words. Considering it is better than dwelling on the way a simple touch has him shivering. "The others have mentioned you."

"There's not much worth mentioning." Dirk follows the cut of the fabric along Eridan's throat, to the flushed filaments at his neck, reaching with a curious hand.

"On the contrary," Eridan begins, and ends on a moan as Dirk's fingertips tease something unexpected out of his gills.  _"Careful."_  Even when he follows it with a growl, it's hard to sound serious—his bulge is threatening to spill out already, and he's pressed flush against Dirk as is.

"I'm always careful," Dirk replies, several shades softer. Fondness isn’t the term he's seeking, but to see this strange creature so worked up under his wandering touch definitely evokes s _omething_.

"...fine. I meant what I said about goin' gentle on me, though. I don't want your fuckin' pity plays." Eridan ducks his head, almost as if he's shying away. Then his mouth runs across Dirk's jaw, and down his throat, teeth offering the barest threat, and it's rather obvious that he isn't.

Dirk says, "Careful and gentle aren't the same thing." The teeth on his skin coax gooseflesh under the fabric, and he shivers, leaning in closer.

"You always this pedantic?" Eridan rucks up Dirk's outfit, starting at the sheer warmth of him. Humans are as heated as mutants, it seems, and he chirps in question.

"It's a habit." Eridan makes a funny sound, and Dirk stills a little, letting him take his time. It would be a lie to say he hasn't wondered what it would be like, to be looked over like this. Human, prince, troll, he doesn't give too much of a shit.

"D'you—uh, d'you wanna take this somewhere a little less exposed, maybe?" Eridan's palm is flat on Dirk's warm skin, and his mouth brushes over that delicate throat as he speaks. "Any objection to cathedrals? S'open to the sky."

It takes Dirk a little while to remember how to respond to conversation: he settles for a jerky nod, the breath on his throat scattering the remainder of his thoughts.

"C'mon," Eridan says, scooping up Dirk's hand and tugging him along. "Bring the sword, too. I'd like to see how good you are with a blade." The grin he flashes back over his shoulder is, possibly a little excessive.

It still has him starting in surprise, and he takes a few extra short steps to catch up to Eridan's longer ones.

 

* * *

 

The air catches Eridan as he leaps off the building, and he pulls Dirk up into his arms, even knowing the other prince can fly. Nearby, there's a building, broken open to the elements, a huge cathedral soaring up to the highest heights.

Dirk's legs dangle midair, righting themselves even as he squints at the approaching building. Eridan hadn't been kidding—the roof is stripped away, black-white brickwork tumbling into the gaping maw of the cathedral.

They descend through the hole, carefully, and he sets Dirk down on the ground. "What do you think a my land, then? I, uh—alright, this one's my fault, destroyed it in a battle with the angels that wouldn't fuck off."

"I thought you said you got rid of them." Dirk toes the floor with one shoe: the sound reverberates along the walls through his ribs. "It's...different. Less organic than some of the ones I’ve come across."

"I  _did_ , the battle was before I got rid a the lot a them." Eridan hops up on the altar, his legs swinging over the side as he watches Dirk explore the space. "Yeah. It's just...really fuckin' constructed, I spose."

Dirk tips his head back until his spine pops in a few places. What remains of the arched ceiling suggests craftsmanship beyond some of the curved flora of other Lands. "I need this architect's number when all this is over."

"I might have the time," Eridan says, his eyes locked on the human. He's still fully dressed, but—somehow, before Dirk Strider's regard, he feels far more naked than ever before. "Maybe I ought to rile you up so you'll break out the sword again."

"I can't tell which of us you like more, me or the fucking sword." It pops free again, the telltale song of ozone zipping along their feet through the echoes of the church.

"I know swords, I don't yet know you. C'mon. Teach me about yourself, Strider." For some reason, the sword itself popping back into being sends a shudder down Eridan's spine, and he shifts himself further back onto the altar, tilting his head back to see the sky. "Some a this is based on my sketches, I think."

"You sketch?" Dirk flips the sword in his grip, blade facing down like a shorter weapon as he climbs the cracked stairs.

"Sometimes." His fins flutter, and he closes his eyes as a cool breeze curls through the abandoned structure.

Dirk watches him. Eridan's angles and edges soften—not completely. He suspects they never will. "What else do you do?"

"Hunt. Fight." Another flutter, and he looks back at Dirk. "I'm a fan a history, an' certain types a novels. Beach cleanups."

"That's a hell of a variety list." Dirk spins the sword again, just to keep his hands from wandering too much.

"I like to keep it interestin'. How much longer did you plan on stallin' again?" Eridan's eyes are nearly blown black with want, his hands curling around the edges of the altar.

"Are all trolls this impatient?" It’s a game he’s played with himself before, testing the limits of his own need for attention to his own body, and Eridan knows it. 

 

Dirk trails a hand along the smooth stone of the altar, slowing when he reaches Eridan’s thigh, and Eridan decides that even if he knows these echoes are going to kill him, knows the game Dirk is playing, he can't help but fall into line. He bares his fangs, grips the stone hard enough to threaten cracks. "Don't know. You could always go fuck another troll first an' find out."

"I'll pass." Dirk lets his fingers wander, along the fabric of his trousers, up the cool skin he can feel beneath.

Eridan's breath hitches, and he reaches out to run a hand through Dirk's spun-gold hair, messing it up, artfully so. "Your eyes," he begins, and fails to follow through.

Dirk's head follows Eridan's hand automatically, his neck a swivel. "What about them?"

"Deeps," he mutters, barely catching his breath in time. Whatever sorcery this young god's using, he'd nearly been caught in it. "Do all humans have eyes like they're set to flame from the inside outwards?"

"Uh." Dirk traces figure-eights as he tries to remember the obvious answer. "Not really, no. Strictly a Dirk issue."

It makes Eridan's hand tighten up in his hair, and he nods in reply, absolutely distracted. "Seems like it'd be a safety hazard otherwise. Distracting."

"I wouldn't know." Dirk reaches a little higher, over his chest. "I can't say I've come across anything like yours."

"It's common," Eridan replies automatically. "Troll eyes fill in with our blood colour as we grow older."

"Dope," says Dirk, in lieu of anything practical or intelligent. It is growing increasingly hard to stop touching Eridan, but judging from the numerous chirps, chirrs, and needy little noises spilling out of him, though, he'd have something of a riot on his hands if he tried.

 

Eridan tugs Dirk in closer, and the hair on his nape stands on end as Eridan nips down on his lip a little too hastily for any sort of pretense at "chill". Dirk gives chase, running his tongue over Eridan's fangs. Princes run in repeats, it seems: Eridan hikes Dirk's shirt up once more, and cool hands over warm skin make Dirk loose a breath, bent over the altar and finding the hem of Eridan's own shirt in turn, as he loses himself once more. Eridan's skin isn't clammy, but it's still cool under his fingertips, and he gives an abortive little gasp when they find the lowest of Eridan's gills.

The reaction has all sets flaring, and his fins flicking besides, and Eridan tugs slightly away as he tries to sort these reactions out. Dirk's so shut off that it's hard to tell if something is interest or disgust, and his fins flare out as he goes on the defensive. "What? I  _said_  I was a seadweller."

"You did." Dirk follows stubbornly after him, tugging a little higher to have readier access. He maps the flushed divots in the skin, a focus usually obscured by his shades at odds with the filtered monochrome light.

"'Sides, you liked fuckin' with the ones on my neck—" Eridan moans, and he'd be hard pressed to say if it's at the look in Dirk's eyes or finally getting the attention he's been aching for. "I didn't say you could touch those,  _fuck_  you—"

"You can try," Dirk replies, his voice far-away as he keeps up the observation, watching them flare and puff tiny breezes over his hand.

The focus, and stillness, and  _distance_ , have Eridan baring his fangs in a different reply entirely. His claws sink into heart-bleed pink and  _tear_. He knows, as well as Dirk surely does, that shredding godtier clothing is a wasted exercise.

 

He also knows, as Dirk might, that if Dirk is anything like him, it'll piss him off anyway.

 

And it works: Dirk rolls his neck, annoyed, digging his nails into half-moons along the skin of Eridan's gill covers. If it weren't for the distraction currently laid bare in front of him, Eridan would take it rather badly. As is, his fins do a quick little flutter, and he reaches out to wrap a hand around Dirk's length.

 

"Oh, fuck."

It escapes his lips before he can remember any other form of speech, neurons doing the dirty work (ha) for him. He's less gentle, now, goaded by stimulation, but Eridan shrugs it off so easily it's like he doesn't even notice. 

He doesn't, in fact—he returns the attention, cool mouth moving up that pale throat, work-rough hand stroking over that burning heat. "It'll—it'll be interestin', trolls have a, different setup."

"...different how?" Dirk's head is tipped back towards the empty sky: through the broken frame of rubble, it looks like a piece of it is missing.

"Bulge an' a nook," comes the muffled reply, as Eridan sucks marks into Dirk's skin. He keeps everything below the neck, uncertain, still, if Dirk will want to hide the evidence later on.

"What the fuck does that even—" His train of thought derails and explodes, and Dirk is on fire. Pain is something he knows well enough, and he lets it warm him, fingers hooking around one of Eridan's horns to tug him closer. The noise he makes in answer is as unearthly as the sea is deep, but he moves as he's commanded, the wanting evident in his eyes. Already, his fins are starting to cant down, and after an afterthought of a glance downward, some other evidence of want is revealed in Eridan's lap.

The stretch and pull of arousal, even alien, is enough—Dirk groans, seeking out his mouth again, palming at his crotch, and something cool curls under his hand, straining the golden fabric, staining it with a rich violet. Eridan trills into his mouth, tugging Dirk even closer.

"Oh, my god."

That's new. That. Is very new. 

It's also very  _nice_ , the shape and feel of its movement, and Dirk pulls at the damp material.

This time, Eridan makes a whiny little sound, as the silky fabric of his pants—changed from puffy into something  _suitably_  regal—peels away from his soaked bulge, and nook. He spreads his thighs without thinking, and tugs Dirk in with a scant amount more of thought, and  _hisses_  at the very real heat against his aching concupiscent parts. "Oh,  _fuck_."

Dirk murmurs in agreement, grinding against him with repeated enthusiasm. The colour is rich, fever-bright against his skin. "You bleed this, too?"

"Yeah, I—fuck, it's—" Eridan's hips press, and his bulge lashes out to wrap around Dirk's length, stroking over the whole of it and trying to bring it up against his nook. "Nngh. S'different. Blood, slurry."

"But it looks like this." Dirk's voice is low, hoarse, like he's been running. The stimulation is like nothing he could have figured, Eridan’s bulge on some weird autopilot to have them feeling good, which is very much fine with him.

"Violet," Eridan manages to agree, and he presses in for another kiss—pauses. Spots the sword.

 

The look in his eyes, to anyone well-versed in Eridan Ampora, spells trouble. "Hey," he says, starting off slow. "Weren't you supposed to bring your sword, or somethin'."

"What about it?" Dirk reaches up to tap the side of his jaw. "Not enough tools here for you?"

"Come off it, Strider." His claws drag down Dirk's sides, a strange light in his violet eyes, biolum brighter than ever. "You truly expect me to believe you've never wanted someone to take you apart with  _every_  tool at their disposal?"

Oh, he has—the issue with Dirk's isolation had been just that, any tool at his disposal had been one of his own creation. This boy in prince's clothing (isn’t that what they both were?) was beginning to sound like him more and more. "Don't move."

"An' what if I do? You goin' to stop me?" Eridan deliberately shifts forward, grinding their hips together, his bulge and nook sliding over Dirk's length, hips, as he slips off the polished stone of the altar. "I'd enjoy seein' you try that, I think."

Dirk groans, arching into Eridan’s touch—and he hooks a leg around one of his calves, giving a sharp yank. Eridan slips, and there's nowhere for him to go, pinned as he is between Dirk and this remnant of gods that never existed. He  _snarls_  in reply.

Dirk follows him down, a hand on his chest. "I said not to move," he says, reaching up to grab the weapon. Authority isn't something he wears exceptionally well, despite the outfit, and the exposure feels as new as everything else in these halls.

And Eridan sees it in him as easily as he does in himself—but Dirk has not had sweeps to learn his own authority on an unforgiving testing ground.

There's always time to learn. There's always someone to teach.

 

"An' I said I'd enjoy seein' you try to stop me. This the best you can do?"

Dirk flips the sword in his grip and, turning on his heel, drives the blade into the bunched fabric of Eridan's hood. It screeches in protest on the tiles.

Eridan snarls, writhing against it—but the fabric holds, and he braces across Dirk's chest with one arm, twisting around to try and rip himself free. Slowly, Dirk lowers the blade, over Eridan's sternum with a raised eyebrow. It barely cuts; just enough to raise a thin violet line against the gold fabric.

 

"Good," Eridan manages, panting, looking up at Dirk. Approval shines in his oddly-hued eyes. "Very good. Now turn me an' pin me against the altar, Strider."

The eyebrow almost completely disappears into his hair. "You’re a demanding guy, huh." Dirk complies anyway, tucking away the look in those eyes for later. The stone of the altar is as cold as Eridan when he pins him.

"An' you take direction well. Are you offerin' a complaint or complimentin' me, prince?" The low purr of approval slips out of him before he can master it, but he shifts it into a growl, twisting against Dirk just enough to make his hips  _press._

Dirk offers a groan in reply, running the edge of his blade along his stomach, just before their skin meets. "A little combination of both, I guess."

Eridan's claws scratch over the altar— _into_  the altar—at the implied threat, pulling away from it immediately after and grinding his soaked nook all across Dirk's length in the process. "Want me to stop?"

That's the last thing he wants, right now, is any of this to stop. Whatever fires of irritation Eridan is stoking are settling in his core pleasantly, and Dirk rolls his hips as he drags the sword closer again. "Not particularly."

His horns cut Dirk's cheek open as his head snaps back, and Eridan cries out, thighs spreading a little more. "Want—gods above an' deeps  _below_ —want me to keep it up, then?" Despite Dirk being determined to destroy his concentration, Eridan manages a snarl. "At my throat. So you can pin me down flat. Hand in my hair."

If Dirk were the laughing type, he might let one out now—this is something out of fantasy, this flagrant display of submission while pretending to be in control. Which of them was he talking about? Did it matter?

He follows Eridan's instruction, cheek stinging, and swipes a thumbful of blood on Eridan's jaw before tangling his fingers in his curls.

 

Dirk's blood burns like fire on his skin and Eridan cries out, adding more marks to the altar. "Fuck,  _fuck_ , how—how the hell are you so warm—" It plays against his other senses: his cold bulge curls against the colder altar, painting the stone with his colour. Dirk's length is already covered in his violet, and he goads his counterpart on, eager to add a little bit more. "Think you can take me like this, then? C'mon."

That  _does_  make him laugh, an unprecedented feat to an unexpected question. Eridan's bulge slithers along the stone, and Dirk pushes it out of the way to comply, filling him in one slow thrust. 

Fuck, but it feels—it feels  _new_ , so damn near right that the absurdity of it all just adds to the pull of arousal and has him twitching inside Eridan.

 

This warmth, this hardness, it's entirely new to Eridan. Warm bulges he can cope with, rigid toys he can handle, but humans are a step out of his depth. Eridan grinds back against him, his bulge twisting back to slide across Dirk's thighs, his legs spreading a little further apart. "Gods, gods, okay,  _fuck_ —more, please—the, the sword, c'mon—"

This guy is into it, and Dirk is very quickly learning that he's even more of a people pleaser than he had initially believed himself to be. He flips the blade, tucking it neatly against Eridan's jaw. "I could probably shove that in you, too, and you'd get off on it," he muses. "Good thing humans are nice or whatever."

"Can an' have," Eridan says, laughter in his voice, two seconds from a cry on his lips. His head tips back against Dirk's shoulder, shivering as the cold of the metal cuts through the heat of his partner. "Swords, knives. Staves are a little easier. Guns are fun, though." A thin line of blood forms on his skin, and he moans again.

"Christ. You're fuckin' depraved, dude." Dirk ignores the irony even as he pounds deeper into him, bent over him to run his tongue over the blood that wells up.

"That another complaint?" There's a flatness to Eridan's voice that wasn't there before, as he closes off again, even with Dirk fucking him open. "Shall I quiet down? Not the first time I've been gagged in my life."

Dirk rolls his eyes. "Dramatic, too. This church is your stage, prince, let's hear you sing." He lowers the tip of the blade again, over his side to nick his hipbone.

He doesn't have the opportunity to get any more upset than he already is before Dirk fucks into him, breaks his skin open, and another cry spills out of him. Violet streaks down his neck, smeared where Dirk tasted it, him—the thought is heady enough to make him shiver.

"Feels better, doesn't it?" Silence is such a fucking  _pain_ —true silence, anyway. Dirk's talked to himself, sung nonsense, jerked himself off just so his own voice could fill the gaps the sea left behind. This troll is like a broken reflection of himself.

"It—it does, oh, oh, *oh—"* More noise spills out of him, and his knees tremble, threatening to give out beneath him. It's the most wrecked he's been in a deeps-damned long time. "Th', th'quiet, s'fuckin' awful. It helps, it, it's— _fuck_ , please, c'mon—"

Dirk pistons in earnest, now, listening for the reverberations of Eridan's voice. He's a one-man choir, like this, splayed under him and bleeding and—and wanting him.

"Eridan—"

"Dirk," Eridan gasps out, his nook tightening up around all that heat. Eridan collapses forward onto the altar, trembling, fins canted down and fanned out, gills flaring open to drag in more air. The tightness has Dirk groaning in turn, a discordant climax that rattles around in his ribs. He keeps a hand around Eridan's horn, head lolling forward against the troll's shoulders.

It's enough, more than enough, and Eridan spills violet out over the altar, over them both, as he screams up to the heavens, the noise echoing off the curving dome until the open sky catches it.

 

* * *

 

The sword drops with a clatter, and Dirk winds his arms around Eridan, spreading the dark colour of his release over the exposed patches of skin. Eridan himself slumps against hard stone again, his head tipping against Dirk's shoulder, something in him eased. "Deeps, Dirk," he mumbles, nuzzling at the warm skin.

"You can say that again," he replies: his voice is low and lazy as he explores Eridan's sea-parts with gentler fingers, hesitant to overwhelm him more.

Another moan follows Dirk's curiosity, and Eridan presses into that touch. "Don't feel obligated to. Hah. Stop on my behalf. Seadwellers are pretty sturdy."

"So I'm noticing." His hand wanders lower, along the lowest gash in his ribs to wrap around his bulge.

Eridan tenses at the touch on his gills, tightens up around the heat still inside him. "Good to be appreciated. Still think I'm depraved?"

Dirk's breath catches in his throat, and he forces it out on a laugh. "No more than me, buddy."

It's warmth enough to match the rest of this, spreading through him, and Eridan shifts back enough to kiss Dirk properly. "I  _suppose_  I could remember that for next time." He's pushing his luck, and he knows it, but there's a question in his eyes all the same.

But Dirk kisses his agreement, lips and tongue painted violet along with the rest of the pair of them. "I'm counting on your good memory, then."

"Good, on account of I'm definitely goin' to remember that you need more  _practice_  in takin' orders." His hand tangles into Dirk's hair, twisted enough to kiss this human prince while he's still buried deep inside, slowly working Dirk's mouth open. Dirk's reply is all but forgotten, letting his lips part and his tongue slide against Eridan's teeth, pliant and willing.

Eridan only pulls back long enough to let the human breathe, to murmur something soothing. A thought occurs: the wings they'd forgotten about flare out again, summoned once more. "Pity about the refractory period."

"You're telling me," Dirk grumbles, reaching up a hand to hover over the delicate wings.

Eridan rolls his eyes, turns away again to give Dirk easier access—and grinds back against his hips. "I'd offer to let you ride my bulge if I wasn't so worried about how  _delicate_  you are."

"If delicate's what you're concerned about, you wouldn't have me in you."

"Fair enough," Eridan murmurs, and reaches back to tug Dirk in for another kiss. "Your call."

Dirk lets out another short laugh, and reaches blindly to wrap his hand around Eridan, sinking into the kiss as he does so. Eridan's control flounders, as he ruts into Dirk's hand. Anyone would be hard pressed to believe he'd just been fucked thoroughly mere moments ago, from the way he keens.

 _Fuck._  That's nice—nicer than Dirk had been anticipating, which is certainly saying something, what with the way this whole scenario has been playing out. He takes the noise greedily, pumping Eridan a few times until his fingers are cool with the stuff.

Eridan had had plans for the human. He was pretty damn certain Dirk Strider would look fucking  _phenomenal_  when stuffed with bulge, barely balancing on his knees as he fucked himself on it, hips stuttering as it thrashed inside him, worked him open too deep— _screaming,_ when Eridan himself bucked up into him and  _took_  him, properly.

 

Instead, he's left spilled across the altar, each breath a jagged rasp, as pleasure's worked out of him.

 

Dirk thumbs the tip of his bulge, dragging his nails along its underside as he pulls his hand back for inspection. "Almost too easy."

"You piece of shit," Eridan manages, and his hips jerk again. He's no stranger to rough play, but this jolts down his spine, and he collapses forward again, panting as his wings follow his fins in canting downwards.

"Sweet," Dirk replies in a murmur, running a knuckle over one of the wings before leaning back. "You look a little beat, Eridan."

"I'm goin' to tie you down an' edge you until you're cryin', Strider," he warns, body arching at the touch. "Are you fuckin'  _finished_ with your amusements, yet?"

"Just about." Dirk pinches a wing, for good measure, swivelling his hips against the troll's.

Another snarl rips out of Eridan, and a mutinous expression surfaces: His bulge twists down, wrapping around the base of Dirk's length.

 _"Oh—"_ His movements stutter, and Dirk folds inwards, bowed over Eridan.

It's awkward, from this angle—less so, when Eridan lets his bulge twine entirely around Dirk, and even less than  _that_  when it has to push up into him to do so. It  _does_  leave him shuddering, fighting down moans. "You look a little beat, Dirk."

"Go fuck y— _Christ, Eridan_ —"

 

And this is, unfortunately, the loudest he has been up til now, his cry bouncing off the broken rafters and the brick.

Eridan laughs in reply, and stretched out to grip at the opposite edge of the altar, letting his bulge twist and lash inside of him, around Dirk.  _Cutting off my own horns to spite my head,_ he muses, then tips back for another kiss that groans into, hips swaying with little rhythm—slow, disjointed movements that react to every little twist of Eridan's bulge.

"Everyone says you're— _fuck_ —talkative. C'mon." He's still demanding, even getting fucked and fucking himself, his nook so stretched out that he can nearly  _see_  the curve of Dirk's dick and his own bulge combined.

“You just wanna hear how good you feel,” Dirk counters, “you're damn lucky the answer is  _really fucking good_."

"Yeah,  _a'course_ ," Eridan gasps, rocking back against Dirk, his bulge squeezing tight. "Your voice is fuckin' hot. Gotta, nn, take advantage, where I can."

"Jesus." Dirk grinds down against the pressure. "I mean—fuck,  _fuck,_  okay, this is good—"

"Purrbeast got your tongue?" Eridan's good at taunts, usually, but now he's reduced to wriggler-level shit.

Dirk's intended retort comes out as another moan, and he braces hard on the troll, head spinning. Claws sink into the back of his neck, no further than skin deep, and Eridan whimpers under him, as something shifts just right. "Please," he manages. He'd been ready to fight down more snark, but this is too much.

Dirk nods, blind again to all but this  _need_ , something tactile to satisfy, and fucks deeper, rocking his hips in earnest.

 

It doesn't take long.

 

This time, Eridan's own slurry spills into his own damn nook, and he reacts with a noise that seems to rip itself right from the core of his being, shivering and shuddering apart as he fills himself up. Dirk's second climax is quieter, muffled against Eridan’s skin as slurry floods around him, cold and jolting him into a few final thrusts that jerk Eridan forward with each movement.

 

* * *

 

When his counterpart finally comes to a halt, Eridan's sprawled across the cracked stone, well-fucked and thoroughly claimed, his eyes drifting shut and godtier uniform a mess of human spill and troll slurry. Dirk pulls out slowly, his breaths long and shaky, blinking stars from his eyes. "Sweet hookup you've got going on here, Prince."

Eridan makes some incoherent noise in response, his bulge sliding wetly from his own nook, slurry and come chasing after it and painting what bare skin is left a debauched, marbled violet hue.

Fuck, that's a sight he'll be remembering later. Dirk runs a hand more delicately over Eridan's wings, his jaw and lips. He's spent enough time utterly destroying Eridan—at Eridan's own command—that the seadweller barely responds, tipping his head just enough to  _look_  at Dirk.

 

Right now, he's vulnerable. He'd be more upset if it had been someone else.

 

Dirk softens, giving a nod, and gives Eridan's crown a little tap. "Mmngh?" Eridan leans into his hand, nuzzling at his palm like a friendly cat.

That has him laughing again: he can't remember laughing this much. "You really are something else, Eridan."

The laughter sends pleasant shivers down Eridan's spine, and he nips at the human's thumb affectionately. "ll' take that as a compliment. Let's get outta here."

**Author's Note:**

> when you have two bottom leaning switches one's gotta step the fuck up and service top and the other one's gotta step the fuck up and power bottom  
> and they're both gonna be really awkward, needy, and touch-starved the whole time


End file.
